


Marrying Sherlock

by alivingfire



Series: Bookshop [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - Bookshop, Kidnapped John, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Overdose of fluffy feelings, Sherlock is a closet romantic, They're finally getting married, Weddings, seriously so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:43:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Others may occasionally grab Sherlock’s attentions; passing meteors in the night or shiny new pennies on the ground, Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran and unnamed serial killers primed to attack all over England. But shiny and interesting as they first seemed, they easily lost their spark and were eventually found to be useless. </p>
<p>But John Watson was the sun, and the moon, and a pistol shoved into a waistband, and a cup of tea and a roaring fire, mundane to passers-by who didn’t understand the genius of what they took for granted.  </p>
<p>And that was why Sherlock was marrying him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marrying Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Whew... This is (as far as I know, at the moment) the end of the Molly's Bookshop series. And so ends my very first foray into writing/publishing fanfiction.  
> I like it, I think I'll stick around. 
> 
> I've got four entirely different prompts that I'm working on now. I'm going to write a little more on each before deciding which will become the full-time next project. I will probably make sure I'm at least halfway through the story before I begin posting, because I'd hate to get to a point when classes start back up where I can't write for a while and I leave it with a cliffhanger or something. 
> 
> As far as this final part of the bookshop series goes, be prepared. The amount of sugary fluff in this will rot the teeth. I let my inner romantic run away with the story a bit - I tried to wrangle it back with a kidnapping and some dead people but let's be real, that's a perfect date for our main men. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy reading this series as much as I enjoyed writing it. Beta and Britpicking awards go to Ruth, who helped me understand the difference between sofas and couches and that apparently Brits don't say "gotten." Who knew?
> 
> I'd love to hear your feedback, either here or at my [Tumblr](http://yourconductoroflight.tumblr.com/). Comments, questions, and prompt ideas are all welcome. 
> 
> Ending this giant author's note with one more round of sincere thanks to everyone who gave kudos, bookmarked, commented, or even read this silly story. I didn't expect even half the amount of attention this got, and I'm so grateful to you all. 
> 
> All my love,  
> Rachel

“John and I are getting married,” said Sherlock.

“Best wishes to the… happy couple,” Mycroft replied after a moment of stretched silence. Polite as ever, face pinched; but pinched in that way that said he was attempting to conceal his real expression from the world’s only consulting detective. Underneath that scrunched look was something like approval, but Sherlock didn’t read too much into that.

He had much better things to do than ponder his brother’s feelings; for example, back in their flat his John was probably wearing entirely too much clothing and Sherlock wanted to assist him with that predicament. Lost in that particularly pleasant train of thought, he almost missed Mycroft’s next hushed sentence.

“Be good to him, Sherlock.”        

 

 

 

“John and I are getting married.”

“Oh, my boys,” said Mrs Hudson fondly, hugging Sherlock tight. “This is so exciting! And about time too. I’ll make us a cake to celebrate, and when John gets back we can start to get plans together. Now Sherlock, you let that man do what he wants on his big day.”

“Is it not my big day as well?” Sherlock had asked, baffled.

“No, it isn’t. It’s a day you’ll tolerate. This is John’s day.”

 

 

 

“John and I are getting married.”

Lestrade laughed so hard that he cried, braced up against his office doorframe and howling. It took several minutes for him to regain the ability of speech, but when he finally could he sputtered something about congrats and how he should have seen it coming, which made Sherlock scoff. If Sherlock Holmes was surprised by John’s sudden proposal, then there was no way _Lestrade_ would have known it was coming. The DI slowly caught his breath and straightened to grin at Sherlock.

“So, who proposed?”

“Well, John technically said it first, but it was a diversion so actually –“

“Excellent,” Lestrade cut him off, which was rather rude for a man who spent a large amount of his time scolding Sherlock for interrupting, among other things. “I won the pool.”

"You all _bet_ on that?”

"Course we did. Knew it was gonna happen.” Lestrade laughed again, this time at the look of utter bafflement on Sherlock’s face, and then he quieted, growing serious for the first time in this conversation. “You’ll treat him alright, won’t you?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock answered with a roll of his eyes.

“You’d better. He’s much too good for you.”

Lestrade made an extra effort to catch Sherlock’s eye and raised his eyebrows as if to prove his sincerity. Sherlock was caught in a moment of surprise at the DI, who was apparently in the midst of one of his rare astute moments and seemed to actually care about the Holmes-Watson duo working out.

“I know.”

 

 

 

 

“John and I are getting married.”

“Oh-oh well, th-that’s really wonderful. I’m so, um, so happy for you, Sherlock.” Molly’s face was red and her eyes were large and she was exhibiting all the same signs of embarrassing barely-hidden longing she usually displayed around Sherlock, except this time they were discussing his upcoming marriage rather than a body lying on a slab or an order for coffee.

Sherlock no longer considered her little shop a waste of space, as it would be forever stored in his mind as The Place Where John Proposed (The First Time) and he rather treasured that memory. He thought back fondly on that night – catching a criminal mastermind and finally getting to kiss John, it was _Christmas_ – as Molly prattled on about wedding present ideas and how appreciative she was that insurance was covering all the damage from Moran’s rampage. (Which wasn’t actually her insurance company at all, but actually came out of Mycroft’s “emergency fund” as a favour to John.)

“… glass everywhere, d-don’t know how anyone got, um, got out alive. Toby’s b-been wild ever since then-“

“Thank you for the coffee Molly. See you at the ceremony.”

“Oh-oh yes. Definitely. “ 

 

 

 

_John and I are getting married. SH_

_Of course you are. Told you he loved you. If he didn’t, he would have aimed for the teeth when he punched you. – IA_

_If you need ideas for the honeymoon, I’ve got a few. – IA_

_Of course, I’ll have to be there for most of them. – IA_

_Absolutely not. SH_

_Touchy. Don’t want to share? - IA_

_No. SH_

“John and I are getting married.”

“Well, that’s excellent, really excellent. Glad you two hit it off so well. Maybe I should start a matchmaking business,” Stamford laughed.

Sherlock grinned, paid for Mike’s coffee, and sent the man on his way with a promise to save a spleen for him next time his class did cadaver dissections.

 

“John and I are getting married.”

“Sherlock?” Sarah asked. She seemed surprised to see the man perched on her examination table but Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. His name was right there on the folder, she’d just read it, and Sherlock isn’t a very common name.

“I need tests run, because John and I are getting married,” he restated. Sherlock refused to shift under her close scrutiny, it was embarrassing enough that soon he’d be stripped down to nothing but a paper gown that hid next to nothing. Sarah contemplated him quietly for a few more seconds before rolling her chair over and sitting by Sherlock’s knees.

“Sherlock, do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Maybe confused?” she asked calmly. He rolled his eyes.

“No. I do not have a concussion. I have a perfectly qualified doctor waiting for me at home in emergency cases, thank you very much.” Sarah’s expression was still annoyingly skeptical, and he groaned in frustration. “John and I are getting married.” 

“Yes, you’ve said that,” she said lightly, and really, her bedside manner and general air of disbelief made him want to chew rocks. Frustrating woman.

“It’s true.” He suddenly realized the hopelessness of attempting to prove the truth of the statement. He internally cursed the gay community for not making it a standard that men should have engagement rings too, which would have made this whole thing simpler. “He asked me to marry him. Call him, it’s true.”

Sarah just shined a light in his eyes and felt the back of his head. She seemed utterly bewildered when her search led to no findings. She excused herself and in her absence Sherlock counted the numbers of dots on each ceiling tile – 136 – and then multiplied by the number of ceiling tiles – 26 – to find the number of dots on the entire ceiling – 3,536. He was just beginning to actually count them to check if simple multiplication actually worked in this instance when Sarah walked back in, clutching her phone.

“You and John are getting married,” she said, her voice distant, like she was there in the room but not really there in the room. Sherlock raised one eyebrow instead of answering. He’d tried to tell her – it wasn’t his fault she hadn’t been listening.

“I need the full range of sexual health tests done. I’m fairly certain that I’m clean but I’m also certain that John won’t have real sex with me until it’s proven and I want that to happen soon. While I am happy about the progress we’ve made so far, I wish for us to move further and I don’t think he knows how to ask me to get tested. So, here I am.” 

Sarah had an odd look on her face, and she was quickly turning paler than usual. She pursed her lips and shook her head a few times.

“Sherlock, did you really think it the best idea to go to John’s ex-girlfriend for STD tests?” She had that look on her face that so many people had when talking to Sherlock; like he was missing something when he knew he wasn’t, because he didn’t miss anything.

“I’m not going to someone incompetent that could mix up the results or some other such nonsense. I’m not trusting any idiot to do what needs to be done.” And really, that should console her. Because whatever their problems before, Sherlock knew that Sarah was not completely useless, and even had her moments of brightness. Kind of like John, but less often.

“Besides, your clinic is the closest one that has the correct equipment available, and the sooner I get those results the sooner I can convince him to have sex with me.”

Sarah suddenly laughed, one loud, sharp burst, and that seemed to spur her into motion. She even seemed to understand the, admittedly indirect, compliment he was trying to give her and she straightened her shoulders, grabbing her clipboard and proceeding without another stray comment. A half hour later, she was ushering him out of her exam room with a promise to call as soon as results came in.

“Oh, and Sherlock?” she said before he left. “Congrats. Really, it’s… about time.”

 

“Hello?”

“Is this William Murray?”

…

“Yes… Can I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock… Holmes. Watson’s Sherlock? That detective bloke?”

“Correct.”

“Thought you were dead.”

“I’m not.”

“Saw it all on the news. Didn’t you jump off a building?”

“Yes.”

“Christ, you put old Watson through hell. Does he know you’re alive?”

"Of course he does. I’m calling on his behalf.”

“Everything okay? He’s not in the hospital again, is he?”

“No. This is good news.”

…

“Oh, alright then. What is it?”

“John and I are getting married.”

…

…

“You’re getting married?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s… excellent. Watson deserves a little happiness.”

“I believe he does, yes.”

"So why couldn’t he just call me himself?”

“He’s busy today. This is my job.”

“Ah. Well, congrats, the both of you. Tell Watson to ring me up soon, we haven’t talked in ages.”

“I will.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s no problem.”

 

 

 

Sherlock was sitting at a table outside Speedy’s, enjoying a quick coffee (who knew that contacting all of the people in John’s phone would be so tiring?) before John got home from visiting his therapist one last time. The consulting detective was busy concocting a slew of insults to hurl at the useless woman if she’d made John upset when he felt what was unmistakably a bottle of ice-cold water being upended over his head. He looked up, spluttering, to see a familiar face glaring down at him.

“How _dare_ you!” The short, angry woman before him had her arms crossed in front of her chest and it was so familiar a gesture that Sherlock instantly knew he was being chastised, though he didn’t yet know what for. He pushed his sopping hair back off his forehead and blinked away the drops near his eyes.

“Hello, Harriet.”

“Don’t you _hello, Harriet_ me! You just couldn’t go and leave well enough alone, could you? You already almost killed him once and he gets put in the hospital and he isn’t out one week, not _one week_ and he’s back out chasing after murderers with his lunatic flatmate! You were supposed to be dead, he was going to get better, and you should have stayed out of his life.”

Sherlock stayed quiet and let her rant; all of the Speedy’s customers, hell, all of Baker Street were listening in but he let her scream. He had a little experience with people with rage issues; it seemed to be a Watson trait, so he was scarily familiar with this particular brand of anger. This was the I’m-angry-at-everything-but-you-caught-my-attention-so-I’ll-yell-at-you type of angry. Sherlock often experienced this when John had a bad day and was suddenly unhappy with fingers in the fridge or the new acid stains on the table, as if Sherlock was supposed to know what would and wouldn’t set him off.

John was usually much better after cases where they got to run and he got to take his gun, even if he didn’t get to shoot it. Maybe Harriet should become friends with people who like to chase after danger; Sherlock contemplated suggesting a risk-themed outlet for her rage but feared that she might throw a hot beverage next so he decided against that.

“… and his limp is back, and he probably could have got back together with that Sarah, she seemed nice, or I was going to introduce him to my friend Tracy but no, he’s chasing your coattails again and I-“

“Harriet, if I may?” Sherlock interrupted. She looked furious but didn’t attempt to pick back up where she left off, so Sherlock forged ahead. “I understand that you’re upset. I’ve put your brother through hell, I know. But I’m attempting to fix it.” Harriet snorted.

“Fix it. How do you plan to fix it, then? Got a magical plan to set him right?” she sneered.

“John and I are getting married.”

Her mouth fell open so hard that he heard her jaw click.

“Soon, in fact. Next month.”

Pure, absolute confusion was etched on her face. She also seemed to be having trouble breathing.

“I believe you’ll receive an invitation within the next week, he just sent them out.”

The confusion was beginning to look like anger again, so he backtracked.

“I really am sorry. More than you’ll ever know. I did what I had to do to keep John safe. Nothing but a threat on his life could have kept me from him.”

Harriet closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. The customers of Speedy’s were hanging on to every word, as if watching a drama performance unfolding before their very eyes.

“If it helps,” Sherlock said, “he was planning to call and tell you either tonight or tomorrow. Definitely before the invitation got there. He was just worried because you’ve started drinking again even though you said you hadn’t and your last few dates have gone badly.”

Harriet reared back, and Sherlock saw stars.

He came back to consciousness just a few seconds later. She was long gone, and Sherlock worried that she’d tell John and he would be in trouble. But went he went up to the counter to pay for his coffee, it was already taken care of.

“That lady that hit ya said she’d get it this time, but next time you’ll be owin’ her,” said the man at the counter, and Sherlock smiled.

In Watsonian, that was almost close to approval.

 

 

 

“Sherlock, when you said you had important personal business today, did that mean going to everyone we know and telling them we’re getting married?” John asked as soon as he walked in, and he sounded as if he was holding back laughter as he showed Sherlock the unusual amount of messages on his phone. Sherlock merely shrugged and wrapped his dressing gown tighter around him.

“Everyone I know has texted me some form of congratulations,” John said. “Well, everyone but Sarah. She sent this.” And he leaned over and showed Sherlock the screen again, which read:

_Tell Sherlock he’s clean, and good luck with his convincing._

“Care to explain?”

“No, I do not care to explain.” Sherlock had refrained from speaking in case his chattering teeth gave him away, which was of course exactly what happened. John looked up immediately and finally seemed to notice Sherlock’s curls, which were still dripping even though Harriet’s water attack had been nearly an hour ago.

“What happened to you? Did you just get out of the shower or something?” Sherlock considered telling John exactly what had caused him to become so drenched, decided against it, and hummed noncommittally. John watched him for a moment more, shook his head, laughed, and walked over to kiss Sherlock on the forehead. 

“Missed you today. Let me make some tea and you can tell me about who you talked to.”

“One for me, as well,” Sherlock called.

“Lazy git,” John said fondly. Sherlock grinned and felt much warmer all of a sudden, despite the trails of icy water still working down the back of his neck.

 

 

 

“You’re joking, Freak. You’ve _got_ to be. There’s no way anyone would marry _you_.” Sally Donovan scoffed and traded incredulous looks with Anderson behind Sherlock’s back as he examined a body lying in the cold London mud.

“Just because you two don’t believe in the sanctity of marriage doesn’t mean we all feel that way,” Sherlock replied distractedly, running a hand through tousled curls. He stood, slipping his travel microscope back into his pocket and turning with a whirl of his coat. He was just beginning to fill Lestrade in on the details of the murder – serial rapist who chose the wrong victim, currently half submerged in a stagnant puddle with a fountain pen lodged in his eye and massive bruising in the genital region from repeated kicks – when he heard Anderson’s mutter.

“That just proves what we already knew. That Watson is wrong in the head,” mumbled Anderson. Sherlock began to spin to face Anderson and reveal to the surrounding audience that the idiot hadn’t told Sally yet that he had contracted chlamydia, but John’s firm hand on his arm stopped him. The crime scene, once bustling with loud activity, now seemed as dead as the body on the ground.

“Anderson, behave,” Lestrade growled, but John held up a placating hand.

“No, Greg, it’s fine.” The good doctor locked eyes with Sherlock for a brief second before rotating to face the coward. “Look, I don’t really care what you think. This is between Sherlock and me, and I’d appreciate it if you’d just leave us be.” His voice was calm, his smile was genial, and he didn’t sound the least bit ruffled.

“But you’re letting him _win_!” Sally cried when Anderson didn’t reply, and her shrill tone echoed so that everyone that hadn’t realized that there was a confrontation was now well aware. Sherlock kept his back turned to the scene, fearing a loss of control if he saw Anderson’s rat face or Sally’s haughty sneer. Besides, John wouldn’t want Sherlock fighting his battles when he was more than capable. But Sally was just making it _worse_. “He already walks all over you. You don’t have a real job just so you can follow that maniac around all day, and he’s just as rude to you as he is to everyone else. And now you’re marrying him? Why don’t you just go ahead and get a collar, he might as well _own_ you.”

A nasty, unending silence. Then…

John laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and Sherlock didn’t understand why his fiancé was doubled over in those wonderful high-pitched giggles, but he felt the corner of his mouth turn up just from the sound.

“Thanks,” John snorted, “thanks for your concern. I’ll keep that collar thing in mind, might come in handy next time I’m kidnapped.” Sherlock smirked and shot John a wink over his shoulder. He rattled off the rest of his deductions to Lestrade as John continued giggling beside him. They were just heading out to catch a cab when John called back to Sally over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Sergeant Donovan?” The crime scene went quiet again as everyone waited to hear John’s parting words. “You’re damn right I’m going to let Sherlock win. Because when he wins, he gets me,” he said, his words accompanied by his good-natured laugh. A few of the bystanders tittered, as if they wanted to laugh as well but didn’t want to face the wrath of an embarrassed Sally. Lestrade, however, grinned and sent the two troublemakers a serves-you-right look. But John wasn’t finished. He pointed an accusing finger at Anderson, who looked completely terrified, and continued. “But you should keep that boyfriend of yours quiet. The British government and I are really getting along right now, and I’d hate for anything to happen to him if he insults me, or especially my fiancé, again.”

Sherlock felt John grab his hand and pull him forward towards the main road. He felt it, but didn’t see it, because he was too busy staring at the face of the only person to ever defend him that wasn’t actually related to him.

“John.”

“Impossible to get a cab out here at night, honestly.”

“ _John_.”

The doctor murmured something else about being cold, but quirked a smile at his flatmate, a grin that said he knew exactly what Sherlock was attempting to articulate and why he couldn’t actually articulate it.

“Just don’t molest me yet,” he smirked, “the Yard’s has got quite enough entertainment out of us for one day and I think you’d give Sally a heart attack. Wait until we get a cab.”

Sherlock shoved his doctor into the backseat of the cab when one finally pulled up and spent the entire ride back to Baker Street simultaneously thanking John and enjoying his new favorite hobby: attempting to catalogue exactly how John’s tonsils tasted. 

* * *

 

It came out in an argument, of course. At a crime scene, no less, because Sherlock was asked back to consult cases not five weeks after his miraculous return from the dead was revealed to the general public.

It was probably a combination of things that pushed Sherlock back into a good light. After his Fall, Lestrade rapidly became an advocate of the truth about Sherlock. No matter how much trouble it got him in with the Chief Superintendent – who still nursed a hatred of Sherlock and John for making his life difficult and his nose bleed – Lestrade did countless interviews and exclusives to attempt to set the record straight. Unfortunately, the word of a “disgraced” Inspector who had been “taken in” by the fake consulting detective was hardly taken seriously. Especially since John, on whom most of the evidence was based, flatly refused to do any accompanying interviews. The tabloids and news sources got one quote out of him, and the clip became so overplayed that it, Lestrade’s interviews, and Sherlock Holmes in general quickly faded from the public’s interest.

Mycroft, interfering bastard that he was, had of course sent Sherlock the link to the quote before it was released. Sherlock was only a month into his self-instated isolation, but the dead, blank look on John’s face in the interview was almost enough to send him flying back to London. Sherlock had sat on his rickety, bedbug laden bunk in the hostel in northern Romania and replayed the minute-long clip so many times that he ran his laptop’s battery down. He’d then plugged it in and watched the clip a few more times on his phone.

“Sherlock Holmes was the best thing to happen to London. He saved more lives than any of you could ever imagine. This city will never be the same without him. I’ll never-“

That was all the reporters had got before John had turned and fled into the flat. Sherlock hated himself for causing that, and he hated Mycroft more for showing it to him.

But then Sherlock came back from the dead, and Lestrade’s interviews were suddenly gold. He was the new hero of Scotland Yard, unwavering defender of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The Chief Superintendent could glower all he wanted, but Lestrade could do basically whatever he wanted to do, and he wanted to bring Sherlock back on.

So, Lestrade’s faith and newfound fame helped get Sherlock back onto a crime scene, but it was Mycroft’s overwhelming influence that clearly caused it to actually happen. It seemed big brother was attempting to get back in his good graces, because Lestrade called with a particularly nasty murder not even a full month after Sherlock came back. There was no mention of fraud or forged evidence anywhere. 

That was the first murder Sherlock solved when he came back; he’d excitedly dragged John all over Surrey chasing a man who killed his uncle over a deep family resentment that went back decades. John had spent the entire time watching Sherlock as if he’d disappear, and Sherlock kept a casual hand on him at all times to combat that fear. At Sherlock’s second crime scene after the hiatus, Donovan and Anderson had shouted mean things at John over a serial rapist’s body and John had said wonderfully mean things back, then thoroughly snogged Sherlock in the backseat of a cab all the way back to Baker Street.

This particular day of work, however, was obviously not going to end as well as either of the past two. Something in the way John’s face crumpled when Sherlock spoke screamed not good. Sherlock had felt it building over the past week: stretched silences and odd looks and a general feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. John wasn’t saying something, and for some reason this crime scene looked as if it was the perfect catalyst to bring it out of him.

The effort spent pretending that there was no inevitable shouting in his future meant that Sherlock was regulating his words even less than usual. If John’s huffs of irritation and Anderson’s fuming were any clues to go by, he was on sparkling form and was sure to alienate everyone around him by the end of the day.

Sherlock felt the tension build and build until his stomach was rolling and he was sweating for no real reason. He was interrupted in the middle of comparing Anderson’s mother and John’s deductive skills to the spilled intestines on the basement floor by a hard hand pulling him out of the room by the scruff of his neck.

“John- what the hell- let me _go_ ,” he spluttered. John just yanked harder and pulled Sherlock behind him up the stairs.

“Be right back, everyone. Got something to take care of,” John called back to the crime scene. His voice was not angry, which would have been scary enough, but had instead taken on a ridiculous fake cheerful tone that made Sherlock’s toes clench in anxiety inside his Armani shoes.

John pulled Sherlock bodily out of the house, past several chuckling policemen, and to the nearest deserted alleyway. As soon as witnesses couldn’t see, John pinned Sherlock against the dirty brick wall with a forearm across the detective’s upper chest.

“What the ever-living _fuck_ is wrong with you today?” John seethed. “You’ve been nothing but insulting from the moment we stepped out of that cab.”

“Me? There is nothing wrong with me,” Sherlock sputtered.  “What’s wrong with you?”

John faltered for a moment, something like fear sliding quickly on and off his face. It was replaced by anger, but it was less blustery and more discreet.

“This isn’t about me, Sherlock, this is about you.”

“I’m like this _because_ of you.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you’re being rude. But of course it is, it’s always my fault.”

“Stop twisting my meaning, John. It’s not always your fault, but it is today.”

“So, what did I do this time?”

“Just tell me what’s wrong!” Sherlock shouted. The panic was rising from his stomach to his chest and he couldn’t take it, he had to know. John stared back in reply, eyes narrowed slightly. They were both breathing hard. “It’s been bothering you for a while, tell me what it is! I’ll fix it, or I’ll hurt whoever it is bothering you, or I’ll buy you what you need, just tell me!”

John’s left arm stayed barred across Sherlock’s chest, but he reached up and ran his right hand through his hair wearily.

“Did you watch that special telly programme on Monday?” he asked. Sherlock was thrown by the topic change, but he shook his head. He’d been recording the results of his paint chip experiment that night, so he’d not heard a word of whatever inane program John had been watching.

“No,” he answered, wrinkling his nose. “Is this another Doctor Who thing?” John laughed once, though it looked like he didn’t mean for that to escape. Sherlock smiled weakly, even though his insides were still in knots and his back was starting to hurt from the bricks he was shoved against.

“No, it isn’t a Doctor Who thing. They ran a special on the news about… well, about you, mostly, but about us too. They’ve been building up to it since the day you were recognized at Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock suddenly remembered hearing his name several times that night, though he’d just assumed it was John and that whatever it was could wait.

“They showed all your big cases, from before, and then the big Richard Brook scandal,” John continued, staring at the wall to the left of Sherlock’s head, “and they kept showing that damned clip of me when I thought you were… well, you know.”

Sherlock shivered and John loosened his hold, but only slightly.

“And I just kept thinking, you’d been gone all that time, doing all that good for the world. They didn’t even talk about that, on the news, because they don’t even _know_. Getting rid of Moriarty’s people singlehandedly. And then you came back here, and you’re back to little crimes that affect barely anybody. I mean, you’ve got to be bored.”

“It’s not boring, John, and besides, you’re here and you don’t want to leave Baker Street.”

“Well, that’s part of the problem too, isn’t it?” He ruffled his hair again. “You’re stuck here because of me, because you feel obligated to be here. And I’m no help to you, not really. You could find a hundred people around that are better with a gun than me. And as you just proved right in there,” he gestured to the house they’d left, “I’m not needed at crime scenes.”

“But-“ Sherlock started to protest.

“No, don’t. I know you don’t need me there.”

“Yes I do.”

“No, you don’t, Sherlock. I know you don’t.”

“But I do, really, John-“

“STOP, just, stop,” John yelled, clenching both fists in Sherlock’s coat lapels and pushing his backwards again. “Stop it. I’m not needed, I’m not. I’m holding you back, think of all you could be _doing_.”

“John-“

“Don’t. Why am I even here? You don’t need me. If this is still leftover guilt from putting me in a hospital, consider it forgiven. I can’t hold you back anymore.”

“John, please, I need you. Don’t go, please.” Sherlock felt his hands shaking as they scrabbled for purchase on John’s wrists. The panic was overwhelming now – data streams inside his head were being redirected into fixing this problem, this issue he didn’t even know was an issue. Of course he needed John. He couldn’t leave, and he especially couldn’t leave in the name of Sherlock’s betterment.

“Then explain it to me, Sherlock! Explain to me why I’m even needed here. Why are you even marrying me?”

Sherlock’s mind began whirling with reasons.     

 

 

 

_Three weeks earlier_ -

Wedding preparations were just as boring as Sherlock expected them to be. Every night, John grabbed his new “wedding notebook” – currently number three on Sherlock’s List of Things to Burn, just behind Mycroft’s newest umbrella and John’s most awful jumper that one of those horrid ex-girlfriends gave him – and sat at the coffee table. He’d scribble and scratch on those pages, tongue poked out of his mouth in concentration. Every few minutes he’d prod at buttons on a calculator and then subsequently frown at the tiny screen.

Despite John’s entertaining expressions, it was an utterly tedious ritual and it meant John was paying little to no attention to Sherlock.

Even though, technically, half of this was for Sherlock’s benefit.

"It’s your wedding too,” John would remind him in a long-suffering voice every night when Sherlock started scratching angry notes on his violin. 

“It’s a civil ceremony at the Registry Office and drinks at our flat afterwards, not a wedding.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s really not.”

They had this same conversation every night. Sherlock endured only eight days of this torture before he snapped. Really, John should have been glad his tolerance lasted this long.

“For God’s sake, let me work out the finances. You concentrate on the napkins or flowers or whatever else there is.” John looked reluctantly down at his current page, which was so annotated and crossed-out that it was nearly black.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. This is putting unnecessary stress on you, which unavoidably puts tension on me. I can’t _concentrate._ Why wouldn’t I help?”

“Uh, well, I’d have thought you’d consider it a bit, erm, dull.”

“Even when you’re being dull, I still want you. And while this is dull by some estimations, I still want it.”

John blushed and went back to his notebook. And Sherlock let him scratch away for four more minutes before tearing the book from his hands and stealing his calculator. John protested for a while before succumbing to the legendary Holmes stubbornness and turning his attention to the telly. Sherlock watched him over the violin against his shoulder and pondered.

Sherlock was not going to let something as pedestrian as money problems strain their relationship. Despite all evidence to the contrary, John Watson was anything but ordinary, but he handled the stress of financial issues just like any other person.

That was one of the only “normal” things about John, though. Sure; as a whole, on first glance, he blended into the background and seemed no more special than any other man.

But if a person peeled apart the pieces and considered every angle, if they discovered the meanings behind the kind words and beige jumpers, if they _figured him out_ , they’d realize what Sherlock already knew: John Watson was anything but dull.

The outgrown military haircut spoke to his loyalties to the RAMC, to his comrades, to his country, to his Queen. Unwilling to change styles even after years of being out of the service – he was an army man even if the army couldn’t still have him.

His hands told novel-length tales. He was pushed from early on in his school career to be a surgeon because of his unending patience and those small, steady hands. The idea took root and from then on guided his life and career choices. The tremor that had surfaced under unimaginable stress and pain in hospital after his military career had ended abruptly had disappeared once again as Sherlock situated himself back into John’s life. Sherlock watched those hands do everything with unfathomable passion – tools of healing that could turn to weapons in the space of a second.

He had an expressive face, due mostly to deep blue eyes that should have songs composed for them and poems written about them and paintings created for them. (The songs and the poems were already taken care of, though John would _never_ know. The paintings would take more time; Mummy had made Sherlock and Mycroft take art lessons as children and they were deleted as soon as humanly possible. But for those cerulean miracles of John’s, those eyes that aimed that delicious exasperation-admiration-affection cocktail at the detective, he might do the unthinkable and retract the deletion of those lessons.) The only thing better than being around the most animated face in London was watching that face light up with delight at one of Sherlock’s deductions.

The old man jumpers in oatmeal colours were Sherlock’s favorite of John Watson’s hidden not-dull nuances. It was utterly clever and completely accidental. John dressed as if he were someone’s father, and therein laid the brilliance. Frumpy, ill-fitting clothing did not attract second glances or prolonged stares, despite any amount of actual physical attractiveness. The bulky cloth hid the well-built muscle underneath. John could blend into any crowd as the friendly neighborhood doctor. Rather unlike Sherlock’s wardrobe, which fit him like a glove (especially the gloves) and pushed him to be as conspicuous as possible. 

But John, brilliant, fantastic John, could pass unobstructed nearly anywhere he went. He had absolutely perfected the art of urban camouflage, and he didn’t even realize it.

Others may occasionally grab Sherlock’s attentions; passing meteors in the night or shiny new pennies on the ground, Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran and unnamed serial killers primed to attack all over England. But shiny and interesting as they first seemed, they easily lost their spark and were eventually found to be useless.

But John Watson was the sun, and the moon, and a pistol shoved into a waistband, and a cup of tea and a roaring fire, mundane to passers-by who didn’t understand the genius of what they took for granted. 

And _that_ was why Sherlock was marrying him. 

 

 

 

_Two weeks earlier_ -

Sherlock found that though he had carefully observed John over the course of their friendship, and though he had rather ruthlessly forced himself to recall John’s likeness during moments of hardship during their time apart (not pining, _never_ pining), he was able to learn so much more when he was allowed to look unabashedly without fear of social misconduct.

Like now, for example. Sherlock had dragged John to his favorite tailor’s shop, a hidden gem lost among the masses of awful, mass-produced polyester nightmares. John had complied and watched with some interest as Sherlock was measured and fitted for a new suit. However, he completely refused when Franco advanced on him, brandishing a measuring tape and spouting his abrupt Italian.

“Per favore, Singore Watson. Questo sarà solo un momento.”

“No, no thanks. Um, no grazie,” John stuttered.

Both John and Franco looked to Sherlock for help, but he was almost too busy watching the fascinating expressions unfold on John’s face to follow any sort of conversation.

“Oh. John. You need a new suit.” The frown line between the doctor’s eyes was particularly endearing. “You’re the one insisting on the party, after all. I’d be fine with some randomly chosen witnesses and a nameless registrar, but this is what you wanted, and you should dress the part.”

That angry eye squint was nearly as charming as the frown line.

“You know damn well that I’m not insisting anything of the kind. That’s all _your_ brother and Ms Hudson, if you want someone to blame.” He crossed his arms. “Besides, I have a perfectly good suit at the flat, I’ll wear that one,” he insisted.

Sherlock frowned as he thought of that awful brown thing hiding behind the miles of wool and denim in John’s closet, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he ushered John out the door to catch a cab while he stayed behind on the pretense of paying.

Sherlock whirled around the shop and found the perfect suit within minutes and handed it off to Franco. He wrote out John’s measurements – always handy to know, especially with their dangerous lifestyles – and gave specific instructions in precise, if rusty, Italian.

John was still stony faced when Sherlock slid into the cab, but he reached for Sherlock’s hand and interlaced their fingers. No matter how pushy and insistent Sherlock got, no matter the phalanges in the fridge and the violin in the early morning hours and the relative chaos of their lives, John always reached for Sherlock’s hand.

And _that_ was why Sherlock was marrying him. 

 

 

 

_Ten days earlier –_

“No.”

“Be reasonable, John.”

“I’ve been reasonable to a fault, Sherlock. This crosses the line.”

“But-“

“ _No._ ”

John had that look on his face like he was going to punch somebody, and soon. And since Sherlock was the only person within the range of his fists, he automatically stood and began pacing slowly away from the couch.

“John, please. Molly’s been saving this for _days,_ ” Sherlock said. John rolled his eyes and turned to the next page of his newspaper. When an answer did not seem to be forthcoming, Sherlock flung himself to the floor by John’s feet and grabbed the hem of his bathrobe. John sighed a put-upon sigh and folded his paper.

“Let me pre-empt whatever you’re going to offer by telling you that there is no way you are dissecting a full human cadaver in our kitchen. It’s not on, Sherlock.”

“But it’s for science, John. _Science._ I’m bettering the human race, putting my considerable mind to work solving the mysteries of the human body. Isn’t that a good thing?” John snorted.

“You are not doing this for science, you bloody great idiot, you’re doing it because you like playing around with bodies. You’ll make up some bullshit about an experiment, then get bored and leave a _dead human body_ on my table.”

Sherlock stood and wrapped his dressing gown tight around him, tying the sash with unnecessary pomp and flair. He then threw himself down onto the poor, mistreated couch and curled into a tight ball. He heard John chuckle and return to his paper, and burrowed his head into the cushion at the unfairness of it all.

“It’s not even _your_ kitchen,” Sherlock grumbled a few minutes later. “ _I_ lived here first. I asked _you_ to move in.” John laughed again and poked Sherlock with the pen he was currently using to finish the crossword. “ _My kitchen_.”

“What’s yours is mine, sweetheart. That’s marriage for you.”

“We aren’t married yet. I could call it off and have a cadaver instead.”

John went quiet, then shoved at Sherlock until he turned over. Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at the ceiling.

“Not funny, Sherlock. You wouldn’t dare, anyway.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t?” Sherlock sneered. “Try me.”

He knew, somewhere in an unimportant stream of thoughts toward the back of his skull, that he was being stroppy and a little unreasonable.

But a full body, left specifically for _Sherlock_. A fan, donating his body to science and a follower of The Science of Deduction, wanted Sherlock to study his cadaver.

_His very own corpse._ Why couldn’t John see the brilliance of this?

It was so _unfair._

“Be nice, Sherlock.”

“Or what? The might of the RAMC will come down on me, in the form of one short veteran with a bad shoulder?”

He regretted the comment immediately. One reason for that was the way John’s eyebrows drew together and his shoulders drooped slightly. The other reason was that in precisely 43 seconds, John had him pinned to the floor under his knee, his hands tied behind his back with the sash from his dressing gown.

“Woo-hoo! Hello dears, heard a little scuffle from downstairs. Is everything – Oh!” Sherlock couldn’t see Mrs Hudson with his faced pushed into the carpet, but he could very easily picture the blush on her cheeks or her sly smirk. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt!”

“Not interrupting at all, Mrs Hudson,” John answered cheerfully. He pushed down on Sherlock’s hands and removed his knee from the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock shifted angrily and tried to stand, assuming John was done with his embarrassing display of masculinity. Instead, John straddled the detective and promptly sat, squishing Sherlock’s face back down against the floor.

“You boys and your interesting ideas. I tried the tying thing, once, a long time ago. Of course, that was the seventies, and we got up to all kinds of things back then…”

“For God’s sake, Mrs Hudson. There is no intruder, we are fine, and we do _not_ need to hear of your bondage experiences,” Sherlock spat, inhaling a mouthful of carpet lint in the process.

“Oh, of course. Try and keep it to a dull roar, boys. Can’t be waking up the neighbourhood again.” John chuckled once and must have nodded, because Mrs Hudson’s heels were tapping back down the stairs.

“Now,” John mused, shifting his position so that Sherlock’s face rolled from side to side. “How should we resolve this? I’d assume that since I clearly won this round, I should win the argument and there should be no human bodies on my kitchen table. I have sacrificed quite enough space to body parts in the fridge. Tea?”

Sherlock grunted when John stood, relieving the considerable weight from his shoulders. The tension was relieved further when his hands were unwrapped. Sherlock rubbed his wrists ruefully and heaved himself back onto the couch.

A few minutes later, John was placing a cup of tea next to him and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“You can bring your body to Baker Street,” he said, and Sherlock sat up so fast he almost broke John’s nose. John’s face didn’t show any sign of malicious humour, so Sherlock threw his arms around his doctor and squeezed him tight. “Keep it in C and I won’t throw a fit.”

John Watson was probably the only person to actually win an argument against Sherlock Holmes and then turn around and give him what he wanted. He proved he wouldn’t be steamrolled, but he wouldn’t use his considerable power for evil, either.

And _that_ was why Sherlock was marrying him.

 

 

 

_Six weeks earlier –_

Sherlock knew that John used to consider him to be some form of asexual. Sherlock did not bother correcting that theory. His adolescence and early adult years would prove that false, however.

Sherlock could shut off his brain or enhance it with the plunge of a syringe. He controlled his body’s need for food and drink and sleep. His libido, however, could not be regulated by injection or mere stubbornness, and was by far the hardest aspect of unconscious behavior to control. Luckily for him, just because his body needed sex did not mean people around him were willing to give – otherwise, he would have shagged anything that lay still long enough while he was experiencing that hellish human weakness called puberty. As it was, he went to an all-boys school and learned early on that homosexual tendencies would not be tolerated by his peers. He became skilled at bottling the unrequited and undignified lust and pouring it into other facets of his life.  

University was an even bigger temptation, with sex being traded just as often and casually as drugs or alcohol. Most of his fellow students had no issues with homosexuality or bisexuality and they indulged with whoever struck their fancies.  But by that point, he was in much better control of his hormones and he could push the desire back into an unused cupboard in his mind palace. During his adult years, he pushed a shelf in front of that cupboard door and began filling it with artifacts from his first few cases, ensuring that his sex drive stayed dormant and idle.

Then John Watson kissed him in the remains of a bookshop, and reached straight into that damned cupboard and dusted off that mint-condition libido.

It wasn’t that Sherlock hadn’t noticed John in a physical sense before; he knew, logically, that John was considered attractive. He also knew that the doctor had no problems with gay people, having defended Harriet for years, and did not even consider himself a completely straight man, though he tended to go for women more often than men. But Sherlock had taught himself, no matter how attractive the person, to push away all thoughts considered remotely distracting. It didn’t go with the Work, therefore, it had to go.

That was why Sherlock found John’s jealously of Irene Adler so amusing. The vain woman could strut around stark naked all day long, and the only issue Sherlock had with that behaviour was that it made it _slightly_ more difficult for him to pick up clues about her. But John huffed and pouted and got all fussy so Sherlock tried to avoid spending time with naked women, no matter how little their nudity actually mattered to him.

Because Sherlock discovered that while he now noticed _everything_ about John, no one else could even turn his head. He tested the theory – everything is a science, attraction is no different – and he relied on his once-perfect control to keep him from doing anything rash. He watched dozens of pornographic movies, studied books and magazines devoted to the most beautiful examples of people, and spent countless hours analyzing pieces of art. None of it held any draw. John unlocked his sex drive, and John was the key to its use.

Now, that was just another stream of data, constantly running in the back of Sherlock’s mind. He could look at a body at a crime scene and simultaneously see that the man used to be a pilot based on his sleeves and his thumbs, and that he wore the same brand of jeans as John Watson. John was a constant data flow to which Sherlock was sharply attuned. Sherlock’s desire for the man was relentless, but not overwhelming until he brought that particular unending stream to the forefront of his mind.

When he did, the world could collapse around them, civilization could fall, empires could burn, and Sherlock could ignore the whole thing in favor of analyzing everything that was John Watson. He would not rest until he catalogued everything that could possibly ever be known about the army doctor. And then, once he’d learned it all, he’d discover it again and how it all changed over time.

Because that’s what they had, now. _Time._ Years of it.

They also now had mutual permission. If Sherlock wanted to learn the different textures of all the different colours of John’s hair, he no longer had to ignore that impulse and he could do that. And if John wanted to lock the door to their now-shared bedroom and keep Sherlock from leaving the bed or checking his phone for a full weekend, he could do that as well.

This desire, this beautifully frustrating beast, was now as much a part of Sherlock’s life as the man who inspired it.

And while that wasn’t the only reason why, it was definitely _part_ of the reason why Sherlock was marrying him.

 

 

 

 

From the look on John’s face, Sherlock hadn’t just replayed that all in his head, but had in fact stated it to the world at large. He was still pressed up against the brick wall by his fiancé, his John, but he no longer felt that whirlpool of anxiety crashing inside him. He wasn’t embarrassed about his confessions, but he _was_ worried that John was suddenly breathing unsteadily and his eyes were glistening.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Sherlock shrugged. John grinned and pulled him down for a slow, deep kiss.

“Go tell Lestrade who killed that poor man so I can take you home,” John said, releasing his grip on Sherlock’s coat and patting his bum to send him on his way.

“And you go get a cab, it was the gardener with the pruning shears, and it won’t take long to tell him that.”

John laughed, and it was the best sound Sherlock had heard all week.

* * *

 

Sherlock paced outside the hospital room door. Seven steps forward. Seven steps back. Forward. Back.

It couldn’t keep coming to this. He couldn’t keep doing things that concluded with him walking free and John ending up in a hospital bed.

Forward. Back.

It was a kidnapper, this time. Perhaps they shouldn’t have scoffed at Sally’s suggestion of a collar. Although it wouldn’t have done any good, as the man knew exactly who he was taking. Adam Richardson was a small-time criminal who dreamed of riches untold and a loyal following just like Moriarty’s. He had neither, but that didn’t stop him from making an attempt on Sherlock’s life for secondhand fame and fortune. When that was unsuccessful – with John Watson around, no one got near enough to Sherlock to try anything – Richardson went after John.

For an expert in keeping Sherlock out of the hospital or a kidnapper’s clutches, John was incredibly prone to being found in both of those locations.

Sherlock and John hadn’t spent more than twelve hours apart since he’d come back to London from his self-imposed isolation, but this idiot criminal held John captive for three days. _Three days._ And now Sherlock was stuck pacing a trench into the cheap tiles of this hospital hallway instead of _in there_ with John where he was needed.

Another text sent to Mycroft.

_Tell them to let me in. SH_

He shoved his mobile roughly back into his pocket and went back to his pacing. He didn’t have to wait long for Mycroft’s reply, but he was still irritated at his older brother’s claimed “helplessness”.

_I’ve got you as far as possible, Sherlock. You have to let the doctors do their jobs, and they can’t if you’re interrupting in the middle of surgery. MH_

_I won’t get in the way. SH_

_No, Sherlock. MH_

Sherlock snarled and tossed his phone onto the long-abandoned chair. He began pacing in a circle rather than a straight line, turning his head to look into the operating room on every pass.

As kidnappings involving Sherlock Holmes and/or John Watson tend to do, the days-long game of cat and mouse ended violently. John was here, currently undergoing surgery for a few artery tears thanks to blunt force trauma. Richardson was also in surgery, in a different hospital.

Sherlock probably would have broken in to finish his earlier attempt on that _idiot’s_ life if he was in the same building, but he wouldn’t leave John’s (figurative) side to do so. Lestrade had probably seen that, hence the separate ambulance from John’s sent in the complete opposite direction.

John, brilliant, beautiful John, lying broken on a hospital bed – it made Sherlock ache in unexpected places like his wrists and his calves and, oh, his heart. Sherlock had been utterly _useless_ on this case, unable to piece anything together thanks to his pure, hysterical fear of finding John too late. John, though, had kept his head and stolen Richardson’s phone during the last round of beatings.  He’d furtively called 999 and mocked Richardson until he revealed not only his name (absolute _idiot_ ) but their relative location as well.

And when Richardson realized John’s deception, Sherlock could only listen in horror to the phone call when it was patched through to Lestrade’s phone so they could keep track of the situation while en route. Sherlock had to _listen_ as the danger factor turned from a possibility to very, very real. He had to cling to the knowledge that Richardson wouldn’t keep hitting a dead man, because John’s curses coming through that phone became quieter and quieter until he was silent between the sounds of some projectile (baseball bat, they later discovered) whistling through the air to strike again. And again. And again. 

Sherlock’s stomach clenched and he stopped in front of the window to watch the surgeons work once more. John Watson was small, but he looked positively childlike and miniature in that hospital bed, plugged into all types of machines.

Sherlock was so _tired_ of John being the one hurt. He wished for once that the criminals would stop using John as leverage against him and just go straight for him instead. He itched to _fight_ , to force someone to pay for the damage to the least deserving man in the entire nation.

And _today_ , of all days.

He watched the surgery progress continue and his data streams hummed with interconnected webs of thought, all focusing on the issue of John’s safety. Maybe he should suggest a holiday; he could get John out of the city and away from murderous criminals. But where could they go? Sherlock was in the middle of comparing plane ticket prices on his phone when Lestrade strode through the door.

“How is he?” he asked, joining the consulting detective at the window. Sherlock shrugged, his shoulders tense.

“I don’t know enough about this particular branch of emergency surgery to tell if it’s going well.”

“He’ll be alright, Sherlock. He’s tough. He’s lived with you, he can handle a few stray kidnappers,” Lestrade joked, elbowing Sherlock in some kind of show of male camaraderie. Sherlock turned to glare at him, and the smile slid from Lestrade’s face.

“He’s like this _because_ he lives with me, Lestrade. Don’t turn this into a joke. This is _my fault._ ”

Lestrade held up a placating hand and watched his own shoe scuff against the tile. He laughed softly and Sherlock thought he might just have to strangle him.

“’ _This is my fault.’_ Heard that line before,” Lestrade grimly mused. He looked up and met Sherlock’s mostly uninterested stare. “Mycroft ever tell you about the time John came to his office?”

“I was there,” Sherlock scoffed, turning back to the window. “I don’t need to be told what I already know.”

“Not that time,” Lestrade retorted. “The first time, before he went after the snipers.”

Sherlock kept his face blank but he was suddenly struck with the awful screeching thought that he didn’t know something that he should. He didn’t know why John had started hunting the snipers. He’d just assumed that Mycroft had sent the file over to the flat or picked him up in one of his ever-present black cars, and John had accepted because he was a good man who didn’t mind doing what needed to be done.

“Guess that’s a no,” Lestrade continued smugly. “Mycroft sent those bloody cars after John for weeks, but John kept telling that assistant of his to shove it. But he finally wore down, and Mycroft whisked him off to his office. I guess it started off as just a check-up, making sure John was okay. But he marched right in and demanded Mycroft tell him the whole story. Threw his stapler at the wall and everything.”

Sherlock didn’t laugh, but he saved that tidbit in John’s room of the mind palace, right on the desk so Sherlock would know to return to catalogue it later. He had to give _that_ moment his full attention, and that couldn’t happen until John was safely back at Baker Street.

“But then your brother brought up those snipers, and apparently that was the first John had heard of it.” Lestrade was quiet for a moment, and then his story took on a more solemn tone. “He practically ran from the building. Mycroft called me to help find him. It took a few hours, but he eventually made his way to the cemetery. I… I won’t ever forget finding him there.”

Sherlock did not want to hear this, but he was aware that he had to do so. He knew so little of John’s past year, despite Mycroft’s pointed emails of 221B video surveillance and photos of an increasingly thinner and paler John taken from CCTV cameras. Lestrade drew in a shaky breath.

“He was at your grave, of course. On his knees, pounding away at the headstone. And saying… well, he said lots of things. But mostly he just said that it was his fault. I don’t even think he realized he was talking out loud.” Lestrade shivered. “Mycroft and I stuck him back into a car and had him taken home. He was better for a while after that, but then it got worse again.”

“He was wrong,” Sherlock said, sullen. “It was never his fault. It’s always my fault.” He gestured through the glass to the ex-soldier being patched up yet again for his sake.

“I didn’t tell you that story to make you blame yourself even more,” Lestrade said gruffly. “I’m telling you because he feels the exact same way you do. You both feel like you’re the undeserving one in the relationship, and you both are too big of idiots to see what’s actually going on.”

“I am _not_ an-“

“You are when it comes to him, just like he is when it comes to you. Just face it, Sherlock. And that’s okay.”

“So what’s _actually_ going on then, Lestrade?” Sherlock sneered, though the bravado was purely for show, because he knew the DI could see right through it. “Fill me in, what have you seen that I haven’t?”

“You both deserve each other, you moron. You couldn’t find another man with the patience to put up with you like he has, just like he’ll never be able to find another mad genius detective with a death wish.” Lestrade grinned and elbowed Sherlock again. “But he is different now, because of you, and you’ll have to accept that. He lost some of the best parts of himself when he thought you died, and he’s just starting to get them back.”

Sherlock looked away from the DI and back at John Watson once more, immobile and surrounded by scalpel-wielding surgeons. He rested a hand on the glass, wishing desperately to touch, to confirm, simply to be near the most important person in his life. Like most undemonstrative men, Sherlock was having a hard time dealing with the emotional rollercoaster of a day he’d just lived through, and Lestrade was not helping.

“What am I supposed to do?” he finally asked. “I can’t be without him, but I can’t keep putting him in harm’s way.”

“Well you can stop being pitiful as soon as possible. That’s getting you nowhere,” Lestrade advised wisely. “What you should do is to make your time together as worthwhile as possible. If he’s crazy enough to stick with you this far, then you won’t be able to chase him off. There are going to be bad days, especially in your line of work. You can’t do anything about that. But what you can do is make the good days worth the bad days.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, processing this influx of emotional guidance.

“In short, don’t be an arse,” Lestrade finished, smirking. 

“Good advice for all, I believe,” said a smooth voice from the door. Sherlock turned to see Mycroft, umbrella and all, his face slightly pink as he greeted Lestrade before turning to his brother. “They are finishing the surgery, Sherlock. Everything went very well, as I’m told. John will be checked over fully once more and given a plasma drip to help speed the recovery process, but he will be fine. You should be in his room when he arrives.”

Sherlock silently collected his scattered belongings from the various places he’d thrown them in his fits of rage, and made to walk out the door. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to the other two men.

“You may have distracted me with all this sensitive talk about my relationship, Lestrade, but don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here,” he said threateningly, wagging a finger between the two of them. Mycroft raised one surprised eyebrow and Lestrade spluttered. Sherlock didn’t let them make any excuses before walking briskly to John’s room. 

 

 

 

John Watson was the exception to the rule when it came to doctors being the worst patients. He held his tongue when the nervous young nurse couldn’t find a vein to draw blood. He was calm and quiet and did not utter a single complaint throughout the first couple of days out of his surgery. Sherlock Holmes, however, had no such restraints, and made John’s room an absolute hell for any nurse who dared peek in.

“Sherlock,” John chided as the third nurse left the room in tears.

“I swear they send the most incompetent people when they see our names on the forms,” Sherlock fumed in reply. “She couldn’t have told an X-ray from an ex-convict.”

“Yes, you were very clear on the innocence of her boyfriend,” John chuckled wearily. “Just try to be nice. I still have to be here another few days.”

“Absurd,” Sherlock muttered, flipping through John’s medical file once more. He’d read it cover to cover twice already, and had probably committed it to memory. John’s wounds were healing rather quickly, his cuts mostly faded and the bruises turning from angry purple to sallow green. Even the surgery recovery was going well, and John had moved from being in constant pain to only suffering twinges when he twisted the wrong way.

John groaned and gingerly fell back on his pillow. There was only a short silence before John was flinching at a sudden clap of noise as Sherlock flung the folder across the room and it fell to the floor in a heap. The detective was apparently not happy with that level of destruction and crossed the room to kick the folder and scatter its papers everywhere. He then collapsed into his customary chair at John’s bedside and slumped in the most defeated pose John had ever seen, his face pressed hard into John’s mattress.

“Sherlock,” John admonished, pushing a bandage-wrapped hand comfortingly through wild dark curls. “What’s got into you? I’m sure we could find something for you to do if you’re that bored.”

Sherlock muttered something in reply but it was lost to the recesses of the mattress. John tugged lightly on Sherlock’s hair until he lifted his head. Instead of simply repeating his statement, however, Sherlock reached down and began unlacing his shoes.

“What’re you-“ John tried to ask but he stopped in surprise when Sherlock stood, freshly unshod of his illogically expensive loafers, and clambered onto John’s hospital bed, straddling his thighs.

“Sherlock, I-“ the befuddled doctor attempted again. His hands came up automatically to rest on Sherlock’s hips, but he had to move cautiously to avoid pulling out his IV cord or his plasma drip. “What the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead, he ducked down and kissed John chastely, once, twice, three times. He tried to pull back and John’s hands tightened automatically.

John knew it was ridiculous, that this was the _last_ thing he needed to be doing right now, but he hadn’t seen Sherlock in three whole days thanks to some moron with a death wish and a baseball bat. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but somewhere in the past two months, he’d grown quite used to being able to kiss those outrageously delicate lips that hid that deliciously sharp tongue whenever he wanted. And _God_ , how he wanted.

So he couldn’t be blamed that, instead of insisting Sherlock get off of him, he slid his left hand up to the back of that amazing pale neck and pulled him back down. He saw a small flicker of a smirk but he ignored it in favor of nipping on Sherlock’s bottom lip.

They kissed for a few minutes, or it could have been hours, or days. Time was irrelevant when lost in Sherlock Holmes. They’d pull apart to gasp for air before meeting again, and then John sucked on that spot right _there_ behind Sherlock’s ear that caused him to squirm. Sherlock panted and rocked his hips and John was suddenly aware that while he was only in a paper gown and his pants, Sherlock was entirely too clothed, and he began working at Sherlock’s suit jacket buttons. Sherlock attempted to help and it only made them bump their hands frantically into each other but they finally got the buttons pushed out and the jacket was thrown unceremoniously into the floor.

“Jesus,” John groaned as Sherlock moved his mouth to John’s collarbone, “Sherlock, we can’t-“

“Hush,” Sherlock growled, biting softly at John’s good shoulder.

“We’re-we’re in a hospital-“

Sherlock only huffed and moved back up to capture John’s lips again. It was a solid strategy for keeping John quiet, but it also made Sherlock lose focus enough for John to surprise him with a firm hand on his chest.

“Sherlock,” John gasped, “not here.” Sherlock tried to lean in again, but the army doctor’s hand was insistent enough to keep him at bay.

“Why not here?” Sherlock asked testily. “If I want to have you here in this bed, I’ll have you here in this bed.” He leaned back and crossed his arms stubbornly.

“You’re not having me anywhere I don’t want to be had,” John replied. “What’s got into you?”

Sherlock was quiet for an unfathomably long moment. He stared at John’s chest, where bulky bandages made their presences known under the thin fabric of the hospital gown. He lifted a hand, slowly, so slowly, and unerringly traced the places exactly where John’s skin had split under the force of the attack. John shivered.

“I didn’t used to fear for anyone else’s safety,” Sherlock said quietly. John watched his silver eyes dart to the door, as if afraid of being overheard admitting anything so scandalous as being concerned for others. “Mycroft can handle himself well enough, and has ensured that he and Mummy always have adequate protection. Likewise, Mrs Hudson is only in danger when I am nearby, and I, together with you, especially, am more than enough security for her peace of mind. But you,” Sherlock continued, and it was almost a scoff, but he met John’s eyes and there was a line of concern in the middle of his brow, “you came in with your illegal gun barreling after me into crime scenes, and you changed _everything_.”

John didn’t have an answer, so he refrained from running his mouth with some smart-arse remark and ruining Sherlock’s one attempt at opening up. He opted to stay silent, but ran a gentle hand once more through dark locks.

“I spent the entire year I was away thinking of what I was missing,” Sherlock remarked. “I spent the waiting hours thinking of you, of the flat, what you were doing, who you were with. I thought of how lonely it was, life on the road. Constant danger, little to no sleep, even less food. It made it even worse when I realized that none of that would have mattered if you had been there to distract me. I wanted to get back for you, but it was purely selfish reasoning as the driving force.”

"I don’t care what your reasoning was, I’m just glad it brought you back,” John answered, lacing his fingers with Sherlock’s.

“You should care,” Sherlock replied after a moment. “You should, because I did not attempt even one time to understand what I put you through. I know what troubles I faced, but I did not recognize what I would be leaving behind for you to deal with. You were on your own just as much as I was, but I at least knew you were alive. Mycroft saw to that.” The detective squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “I understand now.”

“Understand what?” John asked.

“What you went through. A much smaller scale, of course. I believed you dead only for a matter of minutes, but it was still entirely too long. How you survived a year…” he trailed off. “I’ll never comprehend it.”

“I didn’t,” John admitted. “Honestly, if it weren’t for Mrs Hudson and your brother, you would probably have come back to nobody. I didn’t handle it well. I didn’t handle it at all.”

Sherlock frowned at the mention of Mycroft, and leaned slowly forward, burying his face in the crook of John’s neck.

“I don’t like owing him for anything,” he murmured into John’s skin, “but I’ll owe him forever for keeping you alive.” He suddenly sat up and placed a gentle hand on John’s cheek. He met John’s eyes with quicksilver certainty and took a deep breath. “I am so sorry, John. I am sorry for what I put you through, and if I must work a hundred years for your forgiveness, I will do so.”

John covered the hand on his cheek with a trembling one of his own.

“You did it for me, Sherlock. You’ve been forgiven since the moment I realized you were alive.”

Sherlock’s eyes were bright and red-rimmed when he leaned in, but neither he nor John mentioned it. Sherlock’s lips were as repentant as his words, fluttering light kisses across John’s mouth, cheeks, forehead, neck. John chuckled softly and pulled him up for a deep, resounding kiss that left them both dazed when it finally broke. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John’s.

“John, I-“

“Brother, dear, I believe it would be most conducive to John’s healing process if you weren’t sitting on him.” Sherlock went from pliant to tense in the second it took for Mycroft’s smug voice to reverberate through the room. John grinned and pushed at Sherlock so he’d stand back up, but Sherlock merely slid down carefully at John’s side and rested  his head on John’s good shoulder.

Mycroft did not roll his eyes, but it seemed a very close call. His hand twitched slightly on his umbrella handle and Sherlock smirked in victory.

“What could you possibly want, Mycroft?” he asked.

“Only to notify you that Detective Inspector Lestrade is coming to get your statements,” Mycroft answered coolly. “I thought a warning might be in order. Clearly, I was correct.”

Sherlock did not rise to his brother’s taunts, as John expected, but simply smiled wider and shifted even closer to John’s side. This time, Mycroft did not refrain from rolling his eyes. It was an odd gesture on that pompous face, and for some reason – the drugs in his system, perhaps, or the cuddly detective in his hospital bed – John felt lighthearted and giggly. His shoulders began to shake with the contained laughter, but one look down at Sherlock’s gleeful, knowing eyes sent him over the edge. Mycroft frowned unpleasantly as John collapsed into the most undignified of giggles, and Sherlock did not even bother attempting to hold back his bark of answering laughter.

“Well,” said Mycroft, speaking only marginally louder to be heard over the sounds of mirth coming from the occupants of the hospital bed, “I had better be off. Sherlock, do try to keep out of trouble next time.”

His umbrella tapped pointedly as he made his way back to the door. John’s chuckles quieted and he turned back to Sherlock, who was watching Mycroft’s uncomfortable exit with obvious delight. John reached with his left hand and grabbed Sherlock’s chin, pulling him in for another bout of inappropriate sickbay snogging. He heard the door swing shut just as Sherlock began responding enthusiastically. John was once again lost in the wonder that was Sherlock Holmes when a not-so-subtle throat clearing broke them apart again. Sherlock groaned and dropped his head to John’s shoulder.

“For God’s sake, Mycroft, what do you want now?” he cried.

Mycroft was an impressive shape in the doorway, silhouetted by the hallway lights and with one impeccable eyebrow raised. Lestrade stood behind him, seemingly caught between several emotions, of which embarrassment and smug satisfaction seemed to be the main two.

“I only returned to say that I am sorry about the timing of London’s criminals, Sherlock. I understand that this was not how you had planned to spend this weekend, and I am sure we can rearrange everything for when Doctor Watson is feeling better.” Sherlock’s frustrated expression dropped right along with his shoulders, and John suddenly felt winded. The air in the room suddenly grew chilly.

Mycroft nodded to Lestrade and made his smooth exit. The DI walked nervously up to the bed, clutching a folder and a pen in his hands. John pinched Sherlock’s shirt sleeve between his fingers to keep him from leaving the bed. Whatever Lestrade needed, he could ask it from both of them together, because John wasn’t sure he could handle letting go of Sherlock for more than a few seconds.

“Christ,” Lestrade said, summing up the day. “I completely forgot what week it was, with all the excitement.” He rubbed the back of his head and grimaced at the other two men.

“I hadn’t even realized,” John answered when Sherlock didn’t. His head was starting to feel fuzzy. “Guess I couldn’t tell how many days had passed, that basement had no windows.”

If all had gone according to plan, if Sherlock Holmes and John Watson weren’t consulting detectives who lived dangerous lives and made dangerous enemies, they would have already been married for two days. John felt his stomach sink as he thought of all those plans he had made, gone to waste.

He could have been on his honeymoon. Instead, he was suffering from bruises and cuts and a post-surgery drug haze in yet another hospital.

Christ, indeed.

“I’m really sorry about this, gents,” Lestrade said.

“Don’t apologize. It was hardly your fault,” Sherlock answered, and John thought he heard faint tones of bitterness running through his words. He changed his grip on Sherlock’s sleeve so that he was grasping the fabric with his whole hand rather than holding it between two fingers.

“Right, well I’m just here to get your statements, and I’ll be off. Do you want to start, John?”

“Might as well,” John replied. There wasn’t much to tell from his side. Left the flat to go do some shopping, heard some shouting for help down an alleyway, crouched to check the unconscious man on the ground, knocked across the back of the head while he wasn’t paying attention. He’d woken up in a dark basement a few hours later.

Sherlock’s side was a little more riveting, but only a little. He truly had panicked, and had missed a couple of key clues that would have led to John’s rescue earlier. His voice shook a little as he told of his realization that the kidnapper had left a footprint from an extremely recognizable brand of shoes, which he remembered being worn by an attacker thwarted by John not two weeks previous.

“It was so obvious,” Sherlock lamented. “Yet I didn’t see it in time.”

“I’m not dead, so I think we can count it a win,” John countered.

Sherlock scoffed. “Close enough.”

Lestrade scribbled down the last few details before flipping his notebook shut. He stood, his knees and back clearly protesting from the strain of the previous days. John winced in sympathy.

“Sorry you were dragged onto the case, I know this normally isn’t your division,” John said. Lestrade yawned widely and shook his head.

“No, it isn’t, but when Sherlock’s called they usually just go ahead and call me too,” Lestrade replied. He turned and directed his next sentence at the consulting detective. “Also, I’ll work on making sure he doesn’t press assault charges. They probably wouldn’t stick, but we don’t need that on your record.”

“Assault charges?” John asked. He turned to raise an incredulous eyebrow at Sherlock, who shifted uncomfortably while attempting to maintain his unconcerned expression.

“Yes, well, I might have been a touch… enthusiastic when we apprehended Richardson,” he said. “To be fair, he did kidnap and hurt my fiancé.”

“I wouldn’t call it enthusiastic, mate,” Lestrade said warily. “I’ve never seen you lose control like that. Bloody terrifying.”

“I trust you have everything you need,” Sherlock said in a blatant effort to change the subject. Lestrade grinned and nodded.

“Yeah, that should do it. I’ll get in touch if we need anything else.” He surveyed the two men for a short moment. “Y’know, sometimes I forget you two are actually together. Seems right though, doesn’t it.”

John laughed and leaned his head down to rest on Sherlock’s. Lestrade’s grin widened and he clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

“Seems right to us,” Sherlock agreed. 

* * *

 

A week finally passed, and John was released to go home. Sherlock arrived at the hospital the moment he was to be freed, having only left John’s side to shower and make arrangements to make the transition home as smooth as possible.

John was grumbling about the prospect of yet another unnecessary wheelchair ride out of the hospital when he noticed Sherlock’s suspiciously empty hands.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

"Did you not bring clothes so I could change out of this gown?”

“No, I did not.”

“And the clothes I wore in here are-“

"In evidence bags, I’m sure.”

“So I’m wearing a hospital gown in a cab.”

“It seems so, yes.”

“Bastard.”

John’s slightly frustrated mood soured even more and he could feel the scowl etching itself rather permanently onto his face. He crossed his arms and frowned mightily the entire wheelchair trip across the hospital to the front entrance. He was just preparing himself for an uncomfortable cab ride home when a familiar call caught his attention.

“Woo-hoo! Boys!”

Mrs Hudson came bustling over, cheeks pink from exertion. She’d clearly come as fast as her hip would allow. In her hands she clutched a battered suitcase.

“Oh Sherlock, you left this by the door,” she scolded. “I think it’s John’s clothes, but I didn’t peek.”

“Mrs Hudson, you are a godsend,” John breathed, gripping the suitcase tightly. “Sherlock, could you get me to the toilets so I can get changed?” There was no answer, so John turned to see Sherlock fully engrossed in his phone. “Sherlock?”

“What? Oh, sorry, can’t. Must go, Lestrade needs my help. Apparently Anderson is too stupid to process an open-and-shut murder.”

“You’re joking, surely,” John said. At Sherlock’s blank expression, John laughed desperately. “Sherlock, how am I supposed to get home? I don’t have any cash for a cab, and I can’t get upstairs on my own.”

“Oh, I’ll get us home, dear,” Mrs Hudson said soothingly, patting John’s hand. “And I don’t know about helping you upstairs but you can stay at mine as long as you need.” John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he answered. He stood shakily and faced Sherlock, who was still completely absorbed in his phone. “This isn’t good, Sherlock. Go help Lestrade, but this isn’t over.”

Sherlock pecked John on the cheek distractedly and headed for the door. “Yes, of course. I’ll talk to you soon,” he called over his shoulder.

“Look at him, excited as ever,” Mrs Hudson commented, joining John as they watched their madman disappear from view. “Well, can’t stand about all day. Let’s get you dressed, and we’ll be able to leave.”

John sighed once more before turning to head to the toilets. He made his way into the nearest cubicle and placed the suitcase on the closed toilet lid.

Instead of wool and denim like John expected, he opened the creaking suitcase lid to find several separate packages, all wrapped expertly in fine tissue paper. He unwrapped the first to find an expensive set of suit trousers. The next yielded the accompanying jacket, and another was the matching waistcoat. John groaned.

There must have been a mix-up. John owned nothing nearly as fine as these clothes; they had to be Sherlock’s. He considered his options: he could go back out in that paper gown that left little to the imagination, or he could try to wear a suit that was going to be too long and narrow for him. He sighed and pulled on the beautifully soft trousers.

But… no. That couldn’t be right. The trousers fit perfectly.

John stared down as his magnificently-clad legs, confused.

“What the hell…” He reached inside the case and found a package with a button-down shirt. It, too, fit wonderfully. So did the waistcoat, jacket, silk socks, and the brand new, highly polished shoes. There was even a tie, nestled inside one of the shoes.

He stopped to stare at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the way out. The suit was by far the finest thing he had ever worn. It fit snugly, but not too tight, and he grinned, bemused, at his reflection. The thing was, it wasn’t even something he ever would have chosen for himself, but the colours did amazing things to his skin. The suit itself was dove grey, pinstriped with tiny white lines. Under the waistcoat he wore a silky blue long-sleeved shirt, topped off with a silver tie.

John, having only really been gay for a few months, did not usually live up to the fashion-forward stereotype that gay men were usually stuck with, but he’d  have to admit that even he could see the drastic difference between a well-tailored suit and the brown one he owned that he’d just bought off the rack.

_Never again_ , he mused, turning to catch the way the shirt made his eyes seem brighter and bluer and the way the trousers make his arse look like it had when he was twenty.

“Well, don’t you look lovely,” Mrs Hudson said, beaming at John as he emerged.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson, but these aren’t my clothes.”

“They fit you well enough, can’t hurt to just wear them for a little while,” Mrs Hudson reasoned, and he shrugged. He followed her out the main door, stepping up to the street and marveling at the speed that it took to hail a taxi.

No wonder Sherlock could always get a cab; it wasn’t by some magic power, it was his _clothes._ John slid gingerly into the back as Mrs Hudson went around the front, stopping to give the address to the driver on the way. John tuned her out, certain she could manage giving the address of her own home. As soon as the cab pulled away, John rested his head back against the seat with a solid _thunk_. Mrs Hudson chuckled and patted his knee affectionately.

“You boys and your adventures,” she chuckled. “Can’t settle down for more than a moment.” John hummed in agreement, eyes already closing due to the strain of hospital release paperwork and Sherlock being himself.

He must have dozed off at some point, but he twitched awake some time later and blearily assessed his surroundings. They weren’t at Baker Street yet, even though the time indicated they should be. In fact, John didn’t even recognize the area.

“Did… did we take a wrong turn?” he asked Mrs Hudson.

“No, we haven’t. I’ve been watching,” she promised. John sat back, slightly reassured, but that confidence waned more and more as the drive continued.

The cab turned a corner and his confusion tripled. He finally recognized the street, but even when the car stopped, he didn’t move from his seat. The cab door beside him opened and Mrs Hudson stood before him, smiling.

“Come, John. Quick stop.”

“But… why are we here?” he questioned.

Mrs Hudson offered her arm silently and he hesitantly looped his through it, finally emerging from the cab to face the brand new glass windows that made up Molly’s storefront. It was closed, or at least it seemed to be, as John could make out no discerning shapes or lights through the windows.

“Odd time for some coffee,” he remarked, and Mrs Hudson laughed quietly as she pulled him to the door. He didn’t understand why she was even trying, it was clearly closed, and-

The door smoothly slid open, and the bell above the door tinkled merrily from inside.

Mrs Hudson yanked him forward once more, until he was finally inside the gloomy interior of the shop. At first glance, it seemed pitch black. However, several blinks later helped adjust John’s vision to the dimness, and he promptly lost all control of his faculties.

Molly had apparently completely rearranged the shop. The bookshelves now lined the walls rather than split the room into sections, and they blocked out all outside light and kept anyone from looking inside. The various mismatched sofas and chairs were not scattered anymore, but lined up in neat rows facing the back wall of the building. The small tables were interspersed between the seats, each bearing an unbelievable amount of candles. The long counter at the back faced the same fate, burdened under the weight of dozens of tea lights. Now that John’s eyes had adjusted, he could see almost normally in the light cast by the hundreds of tiny flickering flames. 

John took in all these changes in a split second, because almost immediately his eye caught on other details that stole his attention.

The sofas and chairs were populated by about thirty people, and John recognized almost all of them: Molly, Sarah, Angelo, Lestrade, Donovan, several of the other officers John was friendly with, Stamford, Bill, Mrs Hudson’s friend Mrs Turner, Anthea, the owner of Speedy’s, several of the doctors from the surgery. The chairs were parted in the middle, an obvious aisle that led to four people standing at the head of the room.

Harry was resplendent in a deep blue dress that hid all the changes and scars the alcohol had left behind. Her usually tired eyes were bright with tears, her typically mussed hair expertly curled and pinned back. There was a single white rose on a ribbon on her wrist. Mirroring her position on the opposite side, Mycroft was incredibly imposing in a classic black tuxedo, his white rose pinned to his lapel. In the very middle stood a man John was mostly sure he’d never met before. He didn’t attempt to figure that out once his gaze caught on the most striking figure he’d ever seen.

Sherlock was like passion reborn – a masterpiece carved of marble and meant for a museum. His usually untamable curls were wrangled into artfully tousled waves. His eyes glimmered even in the soft light. He too wore a black tuxedo, magnificently tailored to fit his every wonderful curve and angle. It was a statement in and of itself that he was more perfect than the flawless white rose pinned to his chest.

John faintly registered that his mouth was hanging open, that he probably look like the idiot Sherlock always claimed he was. He couldn’t much care at that moment, however, his eyes stuck to Sherlock like the man was some high-powered magnet and John’s pupils were made of steel. Mrs Hudson had to grab him by both shoulders to forcibly turn him towards her, but she smiled tearfully as she pinned a matching white flower onto John’s lapel. He belatedly realized that she wore one on her own wrist before she entwined her arm back through his and began marching him slowly up the aisle. Sherlock grinned as the two approached, seeming more beautiful and untouchable today than he ever had before.

In a symbol as old as time itself, Mrs Hudson placed John’s hand in Sherlock’s before stepping back to take a seat.

“Sherlock…” he said faintly, aware that he had no ending planned for that sentence but that Sherlock would know what he meant all the same. Sherlock’s grin split into a real smile, a chasing-criminals smile, and he moved his hands up so that he was pinching the edge of John’s sleeves.

John almost laughed, mirroring the move, reveling in the significance as several quick memories flashed through his mind. He thought back to that hospital room after a terrible year alone, when Sherlock swept in like a dream and that gesture was the only way John could convince himself the man was real. He remembered dragging Sherlock from behind bookshelf to overturned bookshelf in this very shop, pulling him along by a tiny bit of fabric between two fingers. He thought of a mere week previous in a hospital bed, willing Sherlock silently to stay, to face the troubles with him rather than apart from him.

John was pulled out of his reverie by quietly rustled pages as the unfamiliar man before them began to read.

“Friends and family, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two souls…”

John was lost on a sea of words he had no will to listen to, and eyes he had no strength to look away from. He repeated old, well-worn vows and so did Sherlock, his voice strong and steady where John’s was shaky. Sherlock slipped a ring onto his finger and John stared, mesmerized, until Harry nudged him hard enough to catch his attention. She slipped a matching ring into his hand as the onlookers chuckled. There was a sense of finality as the band of silver slid perfectly onto that long, pale finger and found its home.

Words were still a blur, but John definitely caught “You may now kiss your husband” and he took full advantage of it. Sherlock laughed into the kiss, and John thought to himself: _That just may be the best way to start a marriage_.

The crowd whooped and cried and pelted the newlyweds ( _Newlywed, Christ,_ John thought giddily) with rice as they dashed to the waiting unmarked black car outside. Sherlock crashed into the seat after John and had pulled the doctor on top of him before the car even pulled away. The man kept up a string of one-sided conversation between hasty, sloppy kisses as they headed to some unknown new destination.

“Now, you’re… legally bound… and you won’t leave… since you respect laws… and you… don’t have to testify… against me if I go back to court… and I’ll try to make it up to you… since marrying me… means Mycroft is your brother too… but I can’t promise anything…”

“Holy hell,” John gasped, lips bruising and face blushing crimson as he struggled to sit up straight. “Sherlock.”

“Hm,” Sherlock said in answer, moving his lips to John’s ear.

“Sherlock,” John groaned. “Listen to me.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m trying to tell you I love you, you great idiot!”

John panted as the words left him, too late to call back but too late in coming anyway. He figured it wasn’t normal procedure say it after the wedding, but they were far, far from a normal couple. Sherlock beamed and pressed even closer to John.

“I love you too.” 

 

 

 

Some impossible-to-determine amount of time later, John unwrapped himself from Sherlock and peered out as the car rolled to a stop outside their next location. Another familiar sight greeted him, but the transformation of Molly’s shop warned him not to be too skeptical.

“Come on,” Sherlock urged. “I’m starving.”

“Okay, who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?” John asked, only laughing when Sherlock tugged irritably on his arm and toward the restaurant door.

Once again, a familiar sight had changed in accommodation for their arrival. Nearly all of Angelo’s tables were removed, save for six around the edge of the room. The middle of the restaurant floor was cleared to form a makeshift dance floor. The building seemed to be empty except for the usual noises coming from the kitchen. Sherlock called a greeting to the man at the stove in flawless Italian before sweeping John over to what was clearly the head table.

John settled into his chair and Sherlock entertained him with anecdotes of his struggle to pull together such a flawless surprise. John reassured him several times over that not only was he surprised, but he was very obviously married to a genius because the entire ordeal was remarkable. Sherlock flushed and grinned sheepishly, reaching out and shyly grabbing John’s hand.

The rest of the guests arrived just as Angelo’s nephew brought the first course out and placed it before them. The two barely had any chance to eat between the swarms of well-wishers that gathered around their table. Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Sarah all seemed to be fighting back tears as they all hugged the new husbands. Lestrade shook both of their hands heartily and seemed overjoyed, and even Donovan held her tongue as she wished them well.

The food and wine steadily disappeared as the day wore on into the afternoon. There was laughter and cheers and clinking of glasses and stolen kisses that everyone saw, and John was elated. As he scraped away the last of a delicious meal, the tell-tale sound of a record cracking and popping as it settled into a groove made its way across the space. Mycroft was positioned at an old, elegant record player hidden in the corner, setting the needle onto the vinyl so that a sweet, fluid melody slipped out across the abruptly hushed room. Sherlock stood, and all eyes turned to him as he offered his hand to John.

“I believe it’s customary we dance first,” he said, and his eyes twinkled as John accepted his hand and followed him onto the cleared space. John was suddenly extremely nervous.

“I, uh- I don’t-“ he stammered, and Sherlock smirked.

“I know. Let me,” he murmured, and then they were off. Sherlock led without pushing, John followed without wilting. They flew around the cleared space, Sherlock maneuvering them with obvious skill and patience. John had never thought to expect this; another facet of Sherlock was becoming clearer as they spun under the dim lights. The song drew to a close and Sherlock drew John in tight for a slow, bone-melting kiss. As the next song began, the other guests began pairing off and soon the floor was crowded around them.

“I have a question,” Sherlock said quietly a few songs later, pulling John close and murmuring in his ear. John hummed in answer. “What would you have done if I had said no to your proposal?”

John laughed and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “I would have pretended I was bluffing the entire time just so you wouldn’t follow me. I was more prepared for a no than a yes.”

Sherlock chuckled as well. “Didn’t work. Now you’re stuck with me, I believe.”

“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” John replied. Sherlock made a deep, contented noise in his throat and whirled them through the other dancers so they were close to the kitchen.

“We need to go,” he said, voice dropping impossibly lower and curling John’s toes inside his brand new shoes. His eyes were slate grey rather than their normal ice blue, and the air between them crackled. “ _Now._ ”

“Where-”

“Back door, through the kitchen. I’ll meet you outside; I’ll just tell Mrs Hudson where we’ve gone so they won’t panic. _Go._ ”

John wound his way through the kitchen and burst out the back door, finding himself in a deserted alley. He was there only a few short minutes before Sherlock was there too, grasping his hand and tugging him forward. They slipped through several more empty alleyways and isolated back streets before being greeted by the comforting sight of the brass numbers of 221B.

John cursed as his hands fumbled on the keys, his hands shaking in anticipation. Sherlock was pressed behind him, his wandering hands making it difficult to concentrate on the simple task of sliding the key into the lock. They both groaned when the lock finally clicked, and nearly tumbled inside from leaning on the door so hard. Sherlock had John up against the door in a split second.

“Jesus Mary Joseph and the camel,” John gasped in one breath, his hands tightening in Sherlock’s hair.

“You blaspheme when you’re overwhelmed,” Sherlock said against John’s throat. “It’s rather endearing.”

“Shut it, Holmes.”

“I think not.”

Sherlock yanked John’s tie free from the waistcoat and used it to pull him upstairs. John assumed they’d stop in the living room, but Sherlock continued on to the downstairs bedroom. Mrs Hudson or some other willing force of nature had clearly cleaned; there were no traces of noxious chemicals or animal parts in sight, and the bed had brand new sheets. He had no time or desire to look more closely, especially when Sherlock began working furiously at the buttons of John’s waistcoat. It was tossed unceremoniously to the floor, and the shirt buttons were the next wave of victims.

Sherlock growled, “I have an inexplicable urge to tie you to the bed and not let you leave for weeks.”

“That’s because this suit makes me look like I did two decades ago, when I still did one-handed pushups and pull-ups before breakfast,” John laughed.

“Of course it does, I picked it for you. You wear abominable clothing for your colouring on a day-to-day basis. Sapphire blue brings out your eyes, grey makes you look more tan, and an actual tailor can prove that you’re extremely fit.” Sherlock shoved the shirt off of John’s shoulders until it pooled on the floor next to the waistcoat. He shoved John onto the bed and moved his attention to the trouser buttons.

“I’m flattered you put that much thought into it,” John said, watching heatedly as Sherlock pulled off his next-to-last remaining article of clothing.

“I’m flattered you think that took a lot of thought,” Sherlock answered, smirking. He stood and began unbuttoning his own jacket, but stopped moving when he was halfway out of the sleeves and surveyed John with a thoughtful expression. “One-handed pushups _and_ pull-ups?”

“Every day, at least a hundred,” John agreed mildly. Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally, and John hooked his legs around that thin torso and pulled him down, grinning.

“I knew marrying an army doctor would come in handy,” Sherlock declared, smirking impishly.

“Oh sure. Dodgy shoulder, bad leg, screaming nightmares, but I can stitch up a bullet hole with the best of them. Now, I believe you’re wearing entirely too much clothing.” Sherlock apparently agreed enthusiastically, and between the two of them, they rapidly divested the detective of the rest of his clothing.

It wasn’t until much later, when John’s brain was hazy from a powerful rush of post-orgasm endorphins and his throat was aching from his nonsensical phrases screamed at the ceiling, that he realized the day was not a dream. Sweat was cooling and muscles were shaking and Sherlock Holmes was draped across his chest, contentedly swirling idle geometric patterns across his skin with his fingertips. The man’s hair was sex-mussed and wild and a pattern of purpling skin was forming on his neck from John’s attentions and he was _gorgeous._

He was beautiful and brilliant and probably crazy, and he was absolutely, bound-by-law, _John’s._

They’d been resting only a few minutes when Sherlock’s roaming fingers turned once more into searching hands, and John slowly began to grasp that the desire ebbing through his body for this man in his arms would never abate.

This theory was proven true when Sherlock flipped them over and John rode him until they came crying each other’s names.

And when John slid down that long, pale body and took Sherlock into his mouth and sucked him until John’s jaw ached and Sherlock was begging, please, John, please.

And when Sherlock used John’s shed tie to fasten him to the bed, just like he’d said, and while they didn’t stay like that for a week, they certainly stayed until John couldn’t feel his arms anymore and he would never be able to look at another tie without blushing ever again.

And even after Mrs Hudson knocked politely on the door with a quiet woo-hoo, and an oh, boys, it’s four in the morning and people are trying to sleep.

And especially after Sherlock answered her with a cry of John’s name that probably woke most of the street.

 

 

 

 

John slept well through the small remainder of the night and into the next morning. He woke with a lanky detective curled around him and a pleasant ache deep in his bones. He shifted, attempting to stand, and the arms wrapped around his stomach tightened in protest.

“Mm, no,” Sherlock growled. “Sleep.”

“It’s nearly noon,” John objected weakly, but he burrowed back into the cozy embrace just the same.

They dozed on and off for another hour, sometimes exchanging sleepy kisses or a few sentences. It seemed that London was letting them have their much-needed day after, at least until there was a smart rap at the door.

John groaned and stood, wandering to the chest of drawers to pull out his pajama bottoms and a threadbare t-shirt. He left a confused and barely-awake Sherlock in the entirely too enticing bed and shuffled out to answer the door. He groaned when he saw the figure on the other side of the threshold.

“Hell, Mycroft. Whatever it is couldn’t wait a day?” John grumbled, moving slowly to the kitchen to make some coffee.

“I’m afraid not, John. The political and criminal worlds do not sleep just because it is your honeymoon.” Mycroft’s even voice floated in from the living room, where he’d no doubt made himself comfortable in Sherlock’s chair. John didn’t answer, but set a mug down in front of Mycroft and headed to the bedroom with the other.

Sherlock had flung the blanket back over his head to block out the afternoon light filtering into the room. John set his mug on the bedside table and poked him in the approximate area of his stomach. By the high-pitched noise of protest that erupted under the blanket, he was close to his target.

“Up, Sherlock. I’m not dealing with Mycroft on my own.”

The name seemed enough to fuel Sherlock out of bed. He stood, gloriously naked, and gulped down his coffee before slipping into his own pajama trousers and marching to confront his brother. John trotted behind, smirking.

“Get _out_ , Mycroft, you’re ruining my honeymoon.”

“Mm, quite,” he answered, his eyes flickering over the fingertip-shaped bruises on Sherlock’s hips and the red circles that had been sucked onto his neck. “I won’t linger long, I’ve simply got some paperwork I’d like to drop off.”

“You couldn’t leave it with Mrs Hudson?” John asked wearily, but he stood behind Molly’s chair and waited for Mycroft to hand over the folder he’d brought in.

“Certainly not. In any case, the quicker they are signed, the quicker we can get things processed.” He flipped open the file and pulled out an official-looking paper. “This is the marriage certificate neither of you signed.” He brandished a pen and handed it to Sherlock, who was reading over the document as if to ensure it wasn’t a trick by Mycroft to make him agree to something awful. Suspicions denied, he grabbed the pen and signed his allocated line. John took it from him and did the same, handing it back to Mycroft once he’d finished.

“Is that it?” Sherlock snapped.

“No, it is not. By marrying into the family, John has now become eligible for half of your part of the inheritance. Of course, if a divorce occurs then it will fully become yours again, Sherlock.” Sherlock waved his hand in vague agreement, but John stood up straighter, dazed.

“Inheritance?” he asked faintly.

“Indeed. Our parents saw fit to leave us plenty for after they’d passed. We will receive it either when Mummy passes or if she decides to sign it over to us early. You’ll need to sign this, John,” he said, pulling out another sheaf of papers and passing them to John. “That will make it legal. An estimated figure of Sherlock’s half is listed near the bottom, I believe.”

John promptly swore and dropped the papers – there was an incredible amount of zeroes at the end of that number. Mycroft and Sherlock watched bemusedly as he scrambled to pick up his mess. He hesitated, but signed at the adjacent line to Sherlock’s name, indicating him as the spouse.

“And finally,” Mycroft continued, tucking the inheritance documents back into the file, “Sherlock, I’ve acquired information pertaining to a rather unfortunate series of break-ins. The culprits were targeting senior British government officials, and finally seemed to find what they had been looking for. It seems this case has progressed beyond what we thought and will involve rather extensive legwork. Will you look into it?”

“And what,” Sherlock asked, “did these culprits take?”

“An external hard drive, found during a raid in Afghanistan of a Taliban supporter’s home. It contains rather detailed information pertaining to the war. It is highly important that it is found before the information is deleted.”

“I hardly see why this merits my attention,” Sherlock said, looking disappointed at the lack of creative crimes. “Send your men, this seems to be right up their alley.”

“The hard drive was taken from a room locked from the outside by code, key, and DNA scanner. They also tampered with the security cameras, so we have no leads.”

“Ah, now that is more interesting,” Sherlock said, templing his fingers in front of his mouth. John could see the cogs turning as various scenarios unfurled inside that dazzling mind. “I wonder if there is a way to recover the lost security data, or perhaps…” but he trailed off when he saw the amused resignation John couldn’t keep off his face. “But of course, we don’t have to take this one. There will be other locked-room cases.” 

But even John could hear the poorly-contained longing in his voice. He laughed and turned back to the bedroom, stretching. “Oh, come on, get dressed and we’ll go and look at your bloody crime scene.” Sherlock looked delighted and dashed to the bathroom to get ready. 

 

 

 

 

Thirty-two hours later, John was crouched inside a cupboard and pressed nearly face-to-face with a certain consulting detective. The Sig was in his left hand, and his right was pressed against Sherlock’s chest to keep him from bursting out of their hiding spot at an ill-chosen time. The criminals outside the door grew closer and closer, and John finally nodded and shifted to attack.

In that one heartbeat before Sherlock threw open the door and he and John rushed out in a blaze of gunfire, John thought that many people wouldn’t be happy about work interrupting their honeymoon.

But when Sherlock procured the hard drive from a hidden pocket in one of the men’s jackets and looked up to meet John’s eyes, beaming, John couldn’t help but think of it as the perfect start.

The perfect start to the imperfectly, brilliantly insane marriage of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
